


the hardest to love

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Communication, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23672119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Marti and Nico bond over the shared experience — the confusion and the hurt and the guilt — of loving their best friend.
Relationships: Niccolò Fares/Martino Rametta
Comments: 32
Kudos: 94





	the hardest to love

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever just jenny slate meme about the fact that, before they knew each other, marti and nico were feeling the same feels on the opposite sides of rome? anyway i wasn't going to write this because i want to Know™ what happens to nico before taking a stab at this missing scene. but whatever. i borrowed his backstory from the og because i have a feeling, largely stemming from maddalena's talk with marti in milan, that it'll be roughly the same. maybe once we do Know™ i'll come back and edit this to fit. but for now, enjoy. ✌️

Nico moving into his own place wasn’t quite as exciting as Martino expected. It lost its luster about a week in, when (aside from the dishes piling up and the laundry doubling) staying over for the fifth consecutive night made him feel unbearably guilty. 

Especially after this text from his mom:

> **MAMA**  
>  _I take it I won’t be expecting you home tonight?_

  
She’s already anticipating a routine, and when he’s here, she’s alone.

But when he’s there, Nico’s alone. 

Lose-lose.

He tries not to feel responsible for that burden, like he’s somehow a tether to both of their sanity. And it’s not like either of them have made him feel so, anyway. He’s lucky enough to have a mother who trusts him and a boyfriend who loves him. Both working through shit in their own way and thankful for his presence but not dependent on it. 

(Well, that’s what they say. There are afternoons Marti leaves home and catches a somber glint in his mother’s eye as he checks over his shoulder. Nights where he wakes up in Nico’s bed to find Nico clinging on to him in his sleep.)

But Marti can only be one person — his world and relationships and free time can only blend so much. And he’d be a liar if he said that sometimes, well, he didn’t feel like he depended on them a little more than he’d like to admit too.

So he settles for peacemaking the best way he can: no one eats dinner alone.

Well, it’s impossible to escape some late night pizza with the boys after a night of studying for their last exams (read: Martino and Gio quizzing each other while Elia sees how many crusts can fit in Luca’s mouth before he chokes) and he doesn’t have time to spend with either of them. But it’s split about sixty-forty, mostly because Marti’s mom doesn’t trust that they get enough protein. (Which... fair.) 

If they’re both not over at the Rametta household for supper, she’s over at Nico’s — the three of them bent over his tiny kitchen table, elbow to elbow, with mismatched flatware from a garage sale. Usually eating something cheap like pasta and salad (or something quick like takeout), but that’s okay. 

Tonight, though, Marti’s mom is gone to visit her sister for the weekend. So that leaves just the two of them.

It’s finally nice enough to open the balcony, the star of Nico’s place. It branches off the kitchen through a set of creaky French doors, wide enough for some patio furniture. They have dinner out there tonight, sitting at the petit, bistro-style, wrought iron table with matching chairs. It’s one of the nicer things left over from Nico’s grandma that passed Martino’s taste test. There’s a plastic-lined, red-gingham tablecloth draped over it, reminding Marti of all the bar and restaurant patios that line Campo di Fiori or Piazza della Rotonda in the spring.

Dinner is quiet. They’re both tired, they said, so when their plates are empty neither of them make a move to clean up right away — enjoying the spring air and the clear sky. By the looks of it, they’re not the only ones who have opened their balcony for the evening. Nico has his feet propped up on one of the loops of the laced guardrail, looking out at the rooftop garden of the shorter building across the street. It’s just started to bloom. 

The view isn’t the nicest in all of Rome — mostly just other apartments — but it’s theirs.

Nico keeps shifting his weight, rocking back and forth on the uneven legs of his chair, hands folded in his lap and pulling on his thumb. Lips flat with the smallest downward crinkle.

He’s thinking about something.

Marti is too.

Yesterday, on his way into the upstairs classroom reserved for the radio, Marti stumbled upon Sana: headphones on, back to him, swiping through an Instagram profile on her laptop. He’s far enough away that he can’t quite make out the username. She’s paused on a photo she’s in, surrounded by a group of boys maybe just a little older than her — all with smug smiles that look ready to turn into laughs. She scrolls. The next is her and just one of them. Marti assumes maybe her brother — they look a lot alike. Another is of him and some other guy. She pauses on that one for a long time.

But she eventually keeps going. Another group picture. Candid. This time just a few of the boys. 

And Marti is surprised to see… Nico. His crinkly smile and shorter hair. Laughing at something and looking fondly to his right at a boy with tan skin and wild curls. Marti recognizes him, but he can’t quite place from where.

His stomach tries to sink down to his knees and jump up to his throat at the same time, making for a weird stretching effect that causes the former to buckle on a step forward and the latter to make his voice squeak when he asks:

“Who’s that?”

Sana had slammed her laptop closed like she’d just been caught watching something naughty, ripping her headphones off and hissing _“nothing”_ at Marti like he’d done her some sort of disservice. 

He didn’t dare prod.

Marti is obviously aware that Nico had friends at Virgillio. He thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind, Sana might have mentioned that’s where her brother studied too. But it never occurred to him that they could have run in the same circles. Or that Nico has known Sana (or known of her) longer than he’s ever known Marti.

Nico doesn’t talk about his old friends. His old school. Over a year has passed, he’s graduated now, and Marti still doesn’t think he’s ever gone into detail about exactly _what_ happened — _what_ caused him to fail and _what_ the decision was to try and finish somewhere else. The more Marti thinks about it, the less sense it makes.

In a morbid kind of way, Marti’s glad it all panned out the way it did. But the missing pieces make him wonder if Nico could say the same.

The problem is, Marti has no idea how to bring it up. And he knows it’s going to bother him until he does. He tries to have the conversation backwards in his head, finding a starting point. But Nico beats him to it:

“Do you have homework? I can do the dishes.”

“Oh, yeah. I do. Thanks.”

It all seems very stunted. They can read each other too well by now to know that they each have something on their mind. There’s a long silence before Marti tries again, this time fumbling for the last cigarette in a pack in his pocket.

They’re trying to quit. It’s not like they were ever fiends. But he’ll be hard pressed to admit it isn’t a stress reliever. The most perfect drunk snack. Almost heavenly after a meal. He lights it, takes a drag, and hands it to Nico. Anything to make this easier.

“Last one?”

Marti nods, exhaling. “I miss you at school,” he admits. “Do you miss it?”

Nico turns to look at him, sad eyes through messy hair. “No, not at all,” he scoffs to himself, smoke coming out his nose. His laugh sounds partly out of relief that it’s all over. “I mean, you — yes. But school. No.”

It’s a bit of a dumb question on Marti’s end. Nico’s taking a gap year and hasn’t expressed any interest in university.

His next question is a loaded one, and it takes an extra minute of bravery for Marti to ask it. 

“Do you miss your friends?”

Context is everything, and Marti tries to tone it in a way that doesn’t necessarily mean _that one guy from your English class_ and _Gio, Elia, and Luca._

Nico gets it. “I was a bit of a lone wolf.” He looks away again, puts his feet down. 

Marti knows enough to know that’s not entirely true. Suddenly, he remembers where he’s seen that boy from Sana’s photos.

“I have good friends now,” he corrects himself, a smile finding his face before glancing at Marti in his peripherals. 

He’s not exactly putting up walls — his clever castle of cryptic comebacks already built — but he’s finding distractors. Other things to sway the conversation away from himself. Alligators in the moat.

But it’s been over a year. And it’s not like Marti feels _owed_ this conversation — but maybe Nico needs someone to find a way in. Even if it’s through a trapdoor.

Marti thinks he knows how.

“Do you want to know a secret?” He asks it playfully, turning sideways in his chair and flinging one leg over the curved metal arm of it. It’s very uncomfortable. Nico hands him the cigarette back.

“I don’t know.” Nico narrows his eyes. “Do I?”

“You do,” Marti laughs, continuing, pointing at Nico with the cigarette before putting it to his lips. “I Googled you.”

“You Googled me?”

“Mhm,” Marti smirks, biting his lip. “Not long after we met.”

Nico leans back in his chair, nodding to himself and tossing a loose hand in the air to gesticulate with. “Ah, then now you know I’m a porn star. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

“Shut _up,”_ Marti laughs, kicking Nico’s hip with the point of his toe. “I’m being serious. I tried to find you on Instagram and Facebook. And maybe Grindr —”

“Grindr!” Nico wheezes, threatening to fall out of his chair.

“Let’s move on,” Marti rolls his eyes, feeling his cheeks go pink. He hands the cigarette back to Nico and waves his hand to indicate he’s done, Nico can keep it. “I ended up with Google.”

“And how many videos did you watch?” Nico continues the gag, biting his lip to keep himself from laughing.

“Well,” Marti turns serious, dragging the word out with a tug to his lip. “One, actually.”

This confuses Nico, who raises an eyebrow and goes still — smile melting off his face, expression unreadable. Marti can’t tell if he knows exactly what he’s referring to or if he’s actually frightened there’s a sex tape of him floating around the internet.

“It was of you playing the piano. At one of those occupy things for school...” Marti pauses. “Your old school.” 

Nico doesn’t look away, but he says nothing.

Marti sighs. “I know you had friends, Ni.”

“Had, yeah.” His voice goes bitter, and he tilts his chin down to look at the ground. 

Looking at his dashed face, Marti almost regrets bringing it up. “What… happened?”

“You know… how I get.” Nico flicks the cigarette ash into his empty water glass. “Same shit, different day.” He sounds annoyed with himself.

Marti purses his lips and tucks his chin in in sort of a half nod, neither agreeing or disagreeing. Maybe he shouldn’t have kept poking at it.

“It’s one of those things…” Nico trails after a minute, flipping the burnt out cigarette between his fingers before flicking it into his glass with the ash. “Where everybody knows. But I haven’t really ever said it out loud before.”

“You could write it down,” Marti suggests.

“Yeah, I have done that, actually,” Nico notes with a tilt of his head. “It felt like the only way I could tell my therapist.” He takes a deep breath in.

Marti lets him hold it.

“I loved him,” Nico finally admits, nodding with his mouth in a thin line after he’s said it, his eyebrows crinkled down. It comes out all in one big exhale, the words running together. “His name’s Michele. And he was… my best friend.”

While Marti expected something of the sort, it’s not where he expected Nico to start. He doesn’t know how Nico finds the courage to look up at him, but he does. Misty eyes and a guilty little half-smile that’s all ache and no mercy.

“We had a group of us. Kind of reminds me of you and your friends…” Nico continues, the words coming a little easier now. Like he’s thought them a million times but in a million different ways, trying to piece it all together. “And I was _so_ obvious.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “I couldn’t help it. There were moments where I felt like I was... watching me? Feeling like the co-pilot — not the pilot — of myself? And the next thing I knew I was writing him songs and memorizing books he liked and there came a point… where…”

Marti rests his foot on Nico’s chair; Nico places his hand on his shin, smoothing it up and back down again. Squeezing his ankle before speaking again. 

“I made a move. A big, unmistakable, totally grandiose one. I honestly can’t remember the details. I just remember…” he trails, shaking his head. “I only remember a feeling. The aftermath. Because duh. He is obviously not into me. It was… like... this was it, this was the end — like I was really about to die of heartbreak or humiliation or some combination of the two.”

“Ni,” Marti whispers. The feeling Nico’s describing is still visceral and familiar in his blood. Taking him right back to, well — that same time. His heart sinks thinking of Nico and him, on opposite sides of Rome, feeling the same thing. At the same time. He leans up in his chair to find Nico’s hand on his leg with his own. “I’m so sorry.” He really doesn’t know what else there is to be said.

Nico twines their fingers together. His voice is choked and low and quiet. The sunset around them feels like it belongs to a different conversation. “I failed school because I refused to go back. I couldn’t face him. Or them. Best to pretend I never knew them at all. I still feel… incredibly stupid.”

Marti tilts his head to the side, remembering. “Love makes you do stupid things.”

“Love makes _me_ do _crazy_ things —”

“No.” Marti argues, feeling his throat catch around the word at how decisive it sounds.

Nico looks up at him with a squint.

“You’re not…” Marti takes a deep breath, cutting himself off, and debates continuing. “You’re not crazy — what you did isn’t crazy — and you’re not the only one who’s ever fallen in love with your best friend. Or done something stupid because of it.”

Marti watches Nico’s stare drift around his face — searching his eyes, studying the tug of his mouth. It’s somber. And sympathetic. 

“You can probably guess who it was.”

“Luca,” Nico nods, closing his eyes and pinching his lips into something that looks like a discerning smile.

Mati punches him lightly in the shin. “I have _some_ taste. You’re only insulting yourself by disagreeing.”

“No…” Nico sits back, taking a deep breath and exhaling through his nose. He looks out again past the balcony’s balustrade. “I know. I think if I were you… I would have too. But it’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“You didn’t fuck up.”

“Ni,” Marti tugs on Nico’s hand to get him to look at him again. The tears start in his chest, burning at just the thought of what he’s about to say. At the thought of what he did. He blinks once and they come. “I _did_ fuck up. I fucked up bad. Gio and Eva aren’t together because of me — because I couldn’t stand it anymore. I just _hurt_ so much when I loved him and I manipulated them both — stretched a situation Eva confided in me about to my advantage. Even after I knew I would never get what I really wanted out of it. _Nothing_ about my love then was big or unmistakable or grandiose. It was ugly. And calculating. And overwhelming. So I don’t want to hear that you think you’re crazy or stupid for what you did. I need you to know that you’re not.”

The shock on Nico’s face is subtle — his eyes widen, his chin relaxes, his grip loosens — but it can’t be misread. At any moment, Marti is afraid that he might pull back.

“I need to know that… I’m not.”

“You’re not,” Nico says immediately. Softly. Like it hurt him more to hear than it did Marti to say.

And then he’s tugging Marti by the hand into a hug, somehow both of them ending up in the tiny chair. There’s a nose in his neck, warm breath, a hand on the back of his head. Marti hopes Nico feels as held as he does.

“I’m sorry,” Marti laughs through a sniffle, pulling away. “I didn’t mean to make this all about me.”

Nico doesn’t let him get too far, keeping their foreheads together. Marti notices his eyes are closed. “Stop. You don’t know how well you take care of me, even when you don’t mean to. Being with you is like... breathing. Instead of always having to hold my breath.”

Even after all the notes, the surprises, the looks and intentions… Marti always seems to forget just how romantic Nico is until he’s confronted with it again. And each time it makes him beam, makes him feel giddy and shy and unbelievably lucky all at once.

He kisses him. And there’s a new understanding in it — a thankfulness to the way they hold each other, to the way their lips press together. How easy, Marti realizes, conceding his shame was when it meant Nico might understand him a little better. Easy just like breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> you can talk to me on [tumblr](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
